


Human Things

by domesticadventures



Series: hilariously late christmas prompts [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Robots, but i'm not sure how much because i basically forgot the entire movie, including the fact that sean bean is in it up until he dies, kind of an equilibrium au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-16 22:44:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7287655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam looks over at the tangle of cords and circuitry. He says, “So. Him?”</p>
<p>“Sam,” Dean says, “meet Castiel.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Human Things

**Author's Note:**

> for [cecilia](http://femmechester.tumblr.com/) <3
> 
> prompt: sam/everyone + robots

Dean, it turns out, has already been fighting by the time Sam gets to him.

He’s done it in bits and pieces over the course of months. Maybe even years. Later, when Sam asks, Dean won’t quite be able to remember. He didn’t catalog the time spent on his illegal hobby in the moments he was able to steal, in those few minutes before the end of one dose and the beginning of the next.

Sam times his rescue well. The haze is just starting to wear off when he shows up at Dean’s place and tells him they’re leaving in a voice that allows for no argument.

“Wait,” Dean says, forcing it out through gritted teeth, determined to win this fight against the drugs still flowing through his veins. “Not without him.”

The thing Dean reaches for looks, to Sam, like little more than a jumble of parts, circuit boards and wires and other miscellaneous components all tangled together.

“Him?” Sam says.

Dean doesn’t respond. He clings to his creation like a lifeline as Sam pulls him out the door and into the night.

\--

Once the dampers finally wear off, Dean explains.

Dean explains, and as he does, his eyes are bright, his gestures wide and frantic. He is more alive than Sam has seen him since they were kids, back when excitement and passion and creativity were things to be celebrated instead of mercilessly crushed. Dean trips over his words, like he’s been forced to hold them back for so long that now that he can speak them freely, he can’t stop them from spilling out all at once.

“Okay, so,” Dean says. “Machines, they’re-- so they’re the ideal, right? What they’re trying to make us-- make all of us into-- into these cold, emotionless, _soulless_ things, right? Cold and dead because it’s easier that way. Easier to control, easier to make-- to make us-- to--” He huffs in annoyance. “You get it, right?”

Sam remembers it. Has nightmares about it, sometimes, about how it felt to be exactly where they wanted him. To just...exist. To not care about anything. To not feel _anything_ about anything. To do what they asked with nothing but calm, flat obedience. To go through the motions because it was impossible not to. Most of the time, when he thinks about it, thinks about a life devoid of any free thought or emotion or will, it terrifies him.

Sometimes, though, it sounds comforting. Sometimes he misses it, and that’s worse.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam says. “I get it.”

“But,” Dean says, leaning forward into Sam’s space, lips twitching into the smile that had fallen into disuse, that shape Sam knows from experience he is having to relearn how to form, “if we could make a machine that could _feel…_ ”

Sam’s eyes go wide. “Holy shit,” he says.

“Yeah,” Dean says, and now he’s grinning so wild and fierce that Sam feels something spark deep in his chest.

Sam looks over at the tangle of cords and circuitry. He says, “So. Him?”

“Sam,” Dean says, “meet Castiel.”

\--

Without the numbing effect of the dampers, Dean finishes the rest of his work in the space of a few weeks. Castiel is the first, and then comes Uriel. Anna. Raphael. Naomi. Hael.

Something tugs at Sam, a memory of a book he burned years and years ago, calm and unquestioning, hands steady and eyes cold. He asks, brow furrowed, “Angels?”

“That’s right, Sammy,” Dean says.

“Why?”

“‘Cause they’re gonna help us save the world.”

\--

Sam teaches them. He gives them stolen books, helps them pull up websites from behind the layers and layers of protective firewalls Charlie has created, paints them pictures with his words and his hands both. Their community is small and scared and always on the run, but everyone chips in, anyway, tells them whatever stories from their childhood they can remember, whether fact or fiction. They talk to them about small moments they never quite let go of, whether good or bad or something in-between or something else entirely. They tell them about joy, about embarrassment, about hope and rage and exasperation and love.

The angels take everything in with wide eyes, with urgent questions. It is Castiel who comes to Sam most frequently, who says: Tell me about the angels after which we’re named. Tell me about the wars your people used to wage. Tell me about the art they used to create. Tell me about video games. About purring cats. About holidays. Explain impressionist painting. Explain poetry. Explain why people like flipping the pillow over to the cool side.

And later: Tell me about yourself.

“That’s a good sign, right?” Sam asks. “That interest? That enthusiasm? That’s a pretty human thing, right?”

Dean _hmm_ s thoughtfully. He says, “I dunno, Sam. They’re supposed to seek out knowledge as part of the programming. I’m not sure where the line is.”

Sam sighs. “All right,” he says. “I’ll keep trying.”

\--

Sam tells Castiel about who he used to be. About who they made him be, for a long time. About who he is now.

Sam says, “I was good at being angry, back before. I don’t think I realized it at the time. I think I was just caught up in how good it felt. And then, for a long time, I was caught up in just feeling...nothing. I didn’t even fight it. For _years_ I didn’t even--” He has to stop, then. He swallows around the lump in his throat, runs his hands through his hair.

“And now?” Castiel asks.

Sam shrugs. “I guess I’m still trying to figure that out.”

There’s a pause before Castiel says, slowly, “I believe what you’re feeling is guilt.”

It catches Sam by surprise, makes him jerk his head up to meet Castiel’s gaze. He has his head tilted slightly to the side, watching Sam intently. Sam finds himself wondering if this is something Castiel picked up from someone in camp or something unique to him. He thinks of Castiel naming his emotion and wonders what it means.

Sam swallows hard. “How do you know?” he asks.

Castiel stares at him for a long moment, then blinks purposefully, as though he’s finally remembered this is something a human would do. He looks away. He says, “I read about it.”

Sam suppresses a sigh. He isn’t sure he’s ready for Castiel to be able to read his disappointment.

\--

This is where the revolution begins: a rainy day in mid-September.

Sam walks into a room to find Castiel standing on a chair, arm stretched above his head, finger pressed against the ceiling.

“Uh,” Sam says. “What’re you doing?”

“There’s a leak,” Castiel says, and if Sam didn’t know better, he’d swear he sounds exasperated. “It was dripping incessantly while I was trying to read. It was annoying.”

“Yeah, well,” Sam says, and then freezes. He attempts to replay every conversation he’s had with Castiel over the course of the past year, tries to remember every phrase he used, every statement he made.

“Be right back,” Sam says, and he runs to find his brother.

\--

Dean triumphantly confirms that _No, Sam, I didn’t program them to be irrationally angry about repetitive noises,_ and Sam tries not to let his heart beat straight out of his chest.

“So,” Sam says, later, after Dean has helped them fix the roof, “maybe we can start on the hard emotions soon.”

“Like what?” Castiel asks.

“I dunno,” Sam says, shrugging. “Love?”

Castiel scoffs. “Don’t patronize me,” he says. “I understand love. It’s how you feel about Dean.” He pauses. He tilts his head again, squinting in thought. Sam has had plenty of time to observe. He knows there’s no one here that Castiel would have picked up these quirks from. Castiel adds, “It’s how I feel about you.”

Sam stares and stares and stares.

“I believe what you’re feeling right now is surprise,” Castiel says. There’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Sam smiles, then, wide and bright like he hasn’t in a long, long time. He lets the spark Dean started in his chest all those months ago grow and spread until he feels like every inch of him is on fire with it.

Sam is going to explain this to Castiel the second he remembers the name for it, this thing he hasn’t felt in decades:

Hope.


End file.
